Nicole Jordan - The Seduction

He found the parlor without difficulty and entered to discover his secretary pacing the floor. George Haskell was a tall, pleasant-looking man with even features, non-descript brown hair, and gold-rimmed spectacles. Normally possessed of a lively sense of humor, he appeared at the moment as grim as his employer had ever seen him.

“What goes, George? The matter must be very important to bring you here.”

The secretary glanced at the actress, who was lingering in the parlor doorway. “I’ve come on a matter of some urgency, my lord. If I might have a word in private?”

Finding the attention on herself, Elise flushed prettily. “Of course, I shall leave you alone.” Obligingly, she backed out and shut the door.

“What is it?” Damien demanded impatiently.

“I fear I have grave news. Your sister has suffered an accident.”

Damien felt his heart clench. “Olivia?”

It was a reflexive question. He had only one sister, a girl some fifteen years his junior, who lived quietly at his country estate of Rosewood, the family seat of the Barons Sinclair. “What manner of accident?”

“I do not have all the particulars-the message your bailiff sent was written in apparent haste. But it seems Miss Sinclair fell down a flight of stairs. When she regained consciousness, she had lost all feeling in her lower limbs. The doctor was called, and while he could find no broken bones, he believes her spine to be damaged. The possibility exists that she may be permanently crippled.”

Damien stared, shock rendering him mute.

“I fear that is not all,” George added quietly.

“There’s more?” he said hoarsely.

“From the note, I gather the injury occurred during a-”

“A what, man? Tell me!”

“You will not care for this, my lord, but… it was an aborted elopement.”

“A what?” Damien shook his head. He could not credit that his shy, sheltered sister would attempt an elopement. Or that the strict governess he’d hired to look after Olivia would permit it. “That is impossible. There must be some mistake.”

“Perhaps so,” George said dubiously.

“Who was the man?”

“The man?”

“Her seducer. Whom did she think to wed?”

“The missive makes mention of Lord Rutherford, but it isn’t clear if he is the culprit.”

Damien knew of a Viscount Rutherford, a rather wild young man who had just come into the title.

“Here,” his secretary said, “you will wish to read Bellows’s letter for yourself.”

Damien took the proffered sheet of vellum and hastily perused the nearly illegible scribble in his bailiff’s hand. The tragic mishap had occurred in Alcester at the Four Lions, a busy coaching inn near the Sinclair family seat of Rosewood. The note described the extent of Olivia’s suspected injuries and went on to suggest how the accident came about. Bellows wrote:

It pains me to deliver such disastrous tidings, but I gather your sister planned an elopement. At the last moment, however, the gentleman in question reneged. Miss Olivia fled in dismay, which precipitated her fall. Lord Rutherford summoned the doctor immediately, but the damage was done-to her person and, I fear, to her reputation as well.

I hope to hush up the sorry tale for as long as possible, but I know it cannot be forever. I beg you, my lord, send me your instructions and advise me how best to deal with this dire situation.

Your humble servant, Sidney Bellows.

Raggedly Damien ran a hand through his raven hair. He’d been the subject of more scandals than he could count, but he had kept his younger sister sheltered in the country, with the most decorous of governesses in charge of her upbringing. Now it seemed Olivia had created her own scandal. Worse, she had been gravely injured… perhaps crippled for life…

A fierce anger ripped through Damien, lodging in his chest. The letter did not specifically name her seducer, but whoever had harmed Olivia would feel his wrath. He would put a bullet through the bastard or, better yet, throttle the life out of him with his bare hands.

“I took the liberty,” his secretary murmured, “of having your traveling carriage readied. I assumed you would wish to go home at once.”

“Yes…” Damien said distractedly, still numb with shock.

Rousing himself to action, he finished dressing in seconds. His cravat was left on the floor as he shrugged into his coat. Then, flinging his greatcoat over his shoulders, he made for the door.

Elise stopped him as he came out, delaying him by placing a graceful hand on his sleeve. “Surely you are not leaving, my lord?”

“Forgive me, but I must.”

“But we have not concluded our…”

Arrangements was what she meant to say.

Damien clenched his jaw impatiently, while his reply was completely devoid of its usual charm. “I have urgent business to attend to.”

She smiled apologetically. “I am gravely disappointed. Your visit has been so brief.”

“I will return when I can.” He sketched a brief bow and withdrew his arm from her grasp.

The beautiful charmer forgotten, he followed his secretary out into the chill night, fury and fear for his sister roiling inside him, along with a fierce craving for vengeance.

London, May 1810

Despite the lateness of the hour, the private gaming hell boasted a sizable crowd. Liquor flowed freely, the guests quaffing great quantities of claret and champagne along with a delicious late supper. Yet beneath the laughter and conversation, a serious undercurrent coursed through the gamesters and dandies and nobles playing deep at macao and hazard and faro.

From a discreet distance across the card room, Vanessa Wyndham watched her nemesis at the faro table. Even with her stomach tied in knots, she tried to study him with dispassion.

Lord Sin. The appellation seemed exceptionally appropriate. She could see no signs of dissolution on the ruthlessly handsome face, yet there was a wicked knowledge in those penetrating gray eyes that compelled attention.

Vanessa shook herself, aware she was guilty of staring. Yet Lord Sinclair was a captivating man, with his raven hair and chiseled, harshly beautiful features. His physical form matched his arresting, dark masculinity-tall, lithe, muscular, graceful. His exquisitely tailored black coat seemed to have been poured over his elegant shoulders.

She had come to London expressly to seek him out. To prevent him from destroying her family out of revenge.

Apparently she was not the only one whose interest was roused by the Baron Sinclair. Behind her, a whispered conversation between two ladies caught her ear.

“I see Damien is wreaking havoc at the gaming tables as usual.”

“I cannot comprehend why,” the second voice complained petulantly. “He’s rich as a nabob. He has no need to add to his fortune.”

The first woman laughed. “Come now, you are simply piqued because he has chosen to ignore you all evening. Confess, darling, if the irresistible Lord Sin were to beckon, you would swoon at his feet.”

Unwillingly Vanessa’s gaze strayed back to the notorious nobleman, as it had all evening. She could well understand why women found him fascinating. That combination of polished elegance and raw virility commanded notice, while his abundance of wicked charm presented an alluring danger to the female sex.

Vanessa shivered, despite the myriad candles blazing in crystal chandeliers that lent a welcome warmth to her bare shoulders. She’d worn the empire-waist gown of emerald satin even though it was three seasons out of date, hoping the low neckline might appeal to a rakehell of the baron’s stamp.

He was known as Lord Sin among the beau monde. Since the early days of her disastrous marriage, Vanessa had been aware of the infamous aristocrat. Although they’d never been formally introduced, they had once traveled in similar circles of society. Damien Sinclair was renowned for his scandalous conquests in the glittering ballrooms and bedrooms of Europe. It was said he took wickedness to new heights.

How could such a man be prevailed upon? How could she even summon the courage?

She’d had her fill of rakes. Her late husband had given her a disdain for profligates and libertines. Every feminine instinct warned her to keep her distance from the wicked Lord Sinclair. Yet she was desperate enough to approach him-this evening, if she could manage it.

“Will you call the turn, my lord?” the female dealer asked the baron.

A sudden hush settled over the card room.

Vanessa was familiar enough with the game of faro to know that to “call the turn” was to bet on the order in which the last three cards would be dealt from the box. The house held the bank, and the odds on the wager were five to one.

Lord Sinclair’s arresting features wore a casual, even slightly bored, expression as he predicted the order of the deal-deuce, six, queen-as if there were not a fortune at stake.

Vanessa held her breath along with the rest of the crowd as the dealer turned the cards over one by one… Deuce of spades. Six of clubs. Queen of hearts.

Lord Sinclair had just won twenty thousand pounds.

The tall gentleman standing beside him laughed richly and gave the baron a friendly slap on the back. “Stap me, Damien, I vow you have the devil’s own luck. I don’t suppose you would care to divulge your secret?”

A smile claimed the beautifully carved mouth. “No secret, Clune. My rule is always to bet on a lady. In this instance, the queen.”

Just then Lord Sinclair’s gaze lifted. To Vanessa’s shock, he looked across the room, directly at her. His eyes were the striking color of silver smoke-and just as heated. She felt the sizzle all the way down to her satin slippers.

Dismayed to discover herself trembling, Vanessa turned away and took a sip of wine to bolster her frayed nerves.

“Damn Aubrey…” she murmured under her breath. Her scapegrace brother had put her in an untenable position, gambling away their family home to that man. But she was determined to get it back.

She spent the next hour wandering the card room and keeping a wary eye on Lord Sinclair, debating whether to find someone to afford her an introduction, or to contrive some other means to speak to him. It would not do to appear too desperate. Nor would she care to evoke gossip by accosting him in front of an audience. It was rash enough to have come to a gaming hell alone, using her brother’s membership subscription to gain entrance. Despite the half-mask she wore to conceal her identity, there were several of her late husband’s cronies here tonight who would recognize her if she created a stir.

In the end she decided it better to make any meeting look like a chance encounter and then ask for a private word with him. She did not relish the role of supplicant, but there was nothing left but to throw herself on his mercy and hope that he had a shred of human decency left in his dissolute soul.

The hour was nearly three in the morning when her opportunity came. Lord Sinclair had collected his winnings and was preparing to depart the card room.

Suppressing a display of haste, Vanessa managed to reach the doorway before him and paused long enough to drop her lace handkerchief on the carpet. It was an obvious ploy to gain his attention, but she hoped he would be flattered enough to overlook her artifice.

Like a gentleman, he bent to retrieve the handkerchief and offered her a graceful bow. “I believe this is yours, madam?”

As he politely presented the article to her, his long fingers brushed hers, whether by accident or design she wasn’t certain. More startling than the warmth of his touch, though, was his glance. Penetrating her mask, his gaze connected with hers and held her captive.

For a moment, Vanessa stood frozen, staring up at him. The half-smile on his sensual lips held a measure of his famed charm, yet his face was alert, the gray eyes filled with a keen intelligence. It would never do to underestimate such a man, Vanessa warned herself.

She forced a smile of her own and murmured her appreciation as she accepted the handkerchief. “How careless of me,” she replied, withdrawing her hand.

His look held a hint of doubt, but he let the lie pass without challenge. “I regret that I haven’t the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“I am Vanessa Wyndham.”

He eyed her expectantly, as if her name didn’t strike any chords.